


reprieve

by peakgay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/pseuds/peakgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurens asks Hamilton to step away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated 2 ashley  
> she said 'make it romantic'  
> so now im not  
> she helps me write  
> it's a good thing i know her  
> this is in her honor  
> rip in peace?

John Laurens is.

Alexander’s training in writing doesn’t make that any easier to explain.

His absence is felt; heavy, concrete, the sharp end of a bayonet clawing at Hamilton’s chest.

He sleeps at the desk on some nights, for lack of somewhere warmer.

“It’s not healthy.”

In quiet tones, Hamilton catches the end of the exchange between Laurens and Washington.

“He gives me no choice.”

“You _have_ a choice. Order him not to.”

There’s stiffness, a sadness in Washington’s tone. “We need him now…more than ever. You have to understand that.”

Lifting his head, Hamilton sighs and squints at the parchment. The ink is slightly smudged, though he can barely even see what he had been writing when he had dozed. It’s dark, though there is candlelight illuminating the room from outside the door, in the open hallway.

“I understand that you have no honor, sir.” Hamilton pushes his chair back slowly and stretches. Everything creaks, cracks, then shivers. He rolls his neck and pats down his clothes. “I understand clearly – clearly that he was put in _your_ care and you never gave a damn about anything but – but his late nights and his…his words!”

“It’s what he values, John,” Washington says, his voice softer now. Hamilton licks his lips and leans against the desk. He could step outside, separate the two, but that sharpness lingers in his chest and stomach, vibrating through him. “Alexander will write to his last breath.”

“Shut up.” A hiss, dark and quiet but said with force. “It won’t stop him.”

“It’s the closest I can get.”

“He’ll keep begging until you relent.”

“I haven’t relented yet.”

“Because you haven’t gotten desperate – sir, you can’t…”

“Laurens. Enough.”

“He’s going to die writing as a ghost and you’re going to shake your head and shed no tears.”

Washington is quiet. Hamilton leans back on the desk and runs his tongue along his teeth. The silence hangs before Hamilton hears the retreating footsteps; he focuses for a moment, even with the blur in his mind, and decides they’re Washington’s.

He pauses, lets out a breath, and turns back to look at his desk. He gathers the papers. They’re a speech Washington was having his write.

(“Morale is low, Alexander. You can change that.” And for whatever reason, Alex’s heart had started to pound, and something like a fever spread to his fingertips, and he couldn’t set the quill down, couldn’t let go of the ideas, even the ones that weren’t right, even the ones that were poor, even the ones…)

Slowly, the door creeks open.

John Laurens’ freckled face is illuminated by a lamp. The flame brings warmth to his already warm brown skin.

Hamilton looks up, gestures with his chin at Laurens.

Laurens smiles in the light and walks across the room.

He brushes his free hand against Hamilton’s cheek. The moment is brief, but that fever strikes Hamilton again for the barest of moments. He stares at the parchment, avoiding Laurens’ gaze. Laurens rests the lamp on the edge of the desk.

“I’m sorry…you heard that, didn’t you?”

Hamilton reaches up to rub his chin, shrugs his shoulders. “Some,” he admits. “You didn’t have to say that. You didn’t have to argue with him.”

“Who else is going to do it?” Laurens says. “You won’t defend yourself. You write day and night for that man. I’m surprised your hands still work at the end of it.” Laurens reaches out then, resting the tips of his fingers along the back of Hamilton’s hand. 

Hamilton ducks his head, laughing. “You flatter me,” he says. Laurens cups Hamilton’s hand in both of his and lifts it, kissing the knuckles in each finger one by one. 

Hamilton sighs and Laurens smiles, face glowing in the waning light of the lamp, leaning forward now to press his mouth to Hamilton’s.

“You must be exhausted.”

“I just woke up,” Hamilton sighs as Laurens draws back.

“Ah. You fell asleep at your desk.” Laurens gently pulls the parchment out of Hamilton’s other hand. He knows if he had tightened his grip, he could have kept it. He closes his eyes as Laurens’ eyes scan the words. “I see where the ink is smudged.”

Hamilton lets himself chuckle. “Laurens.”

“C’mon. You shouldn’t be in here, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because you have your _own_ cot, Alexander. Sleeping in this office, it’s...unhealthy.”

“I need to write.”

Laurens touches him again, fingers against the back of his hand, against his wrist. His throat, his jaw, his ear. Tucking strands of hair that have fallen loose.

“Alexander,” he whispers. “Alexander, Alexander.” Laurens’ mouth is against his temple, his eyelids, his cheek, his lips. Hamilton breathes. “You need to rest.”

“Rest,” Hamilton whispers. “When have I ever been worthy of _rest_?”

Laurens hums and drapes an arm around Hamilton’s shoulder. Now it’s not just the warmth of his gaze, but the warmth of his skin. His breath. His mouth. His nose is cold, pressed to Hamilton’s neck, but his lips make up for it. The sweetness drifts, fades, aches in Hamilton, releases like a sigh.

“I know you have your own cot, but pretend, for tonight,” Laurens says, his voice still a whisper. “Pretend and share with me.”

Hamilton shifts, turns his torso slightly so he’s half-facing Laurens, pressed against him. Laurens cups his face and spreads kisses along Hamilton’s skin, humming praise as he does so.

“You’re just trying to steal me from my work.”

“It’s _late_. What work are you going to do in the dark?”

“Washington isn’t making me do this.”

“Of course not,” Laurens says. “I was just unhappy, that’s all.” He presses his nose to Hamilton’s neck. Hamilton reaches a hand to Laurens’ curly hair and runs his fingers through it, drawing back. “I didn’t mean it, you know I wouldn’t trust anyone else with our lives.”

“Mm, or with mine.”

“I know you crave…war. I would take you with me, if I could.”

“Would we valiantly die in battle?” Hamilton chuckles as Laurens’ hands rest on his hips. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if history remembers us, as long as we die protecting our country.”

Laurens laughs. “I can’t decide if you’re serious or not,” he says, tucking his face into Hamilton’s shoulder. “Please, come with me. No one will question it. Men share beds more than they admit, for reasons they keep private.”

“You’re daring,” Hamilton mumbles. “I relent. Take me where you want me.”

He feels Laurens smiling against his skin and wraps his arms around Laurens’ waist. He follows Laurens out of Washington’s office and to their encampment, and they quietly rest in their cots together, Laurens’ arm around Hamilton’s waist after they cover themselves with a thin blanket.

Hamilton has never been warmer.


End file.
